


Of Reeds and Strings

by Dreadfort



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Challenge Response, Friendship, Insecurity, M/M, Prompt Fic, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadfort/pseuds/Dreadfort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock’s school orchestra is on tour when Anderson gets food poisoning, leaving John suck with his solo hours before the big performance. After a disastrous rehearsal, John’s crippling self doubt returns and it’s up to a certain violinist to prove a point.</p><p>Written for Johnlock Challenges October gift exchange, AgeofZero’s prompt: ‘I need your kiss’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pool

**Author's Note:**

> As John and Sherlock are teenagers in this fic, you might find at times they are a little different to how they are in the series because I was considering how this change in age would affect their character. I tried to keep it a very subtle deviance, but I felt I should warn readers anyway.

 

 

This stunning cover was made by theconsultingdragonlord

\-----

 

 

John Watson’s cue flew over the felt, smacking the white ball sharply into the striped red ball, causing it to meet several edges but not the elusive striped yellow one.

“Uhhhh!!” John groaned over-dramatically. “I’m sorry, Molly!”

“It was right there!” Greg Lestrade laughed, pointing his own cue savagely at John. “You really _are_ rubbish at this!”

“Oh, leave me alone,” replied John good naturedly, watching as Greg sank his last full coloured ball. “I don’t have brothers to practice against,”

Molly took John’s cue for her turn, and this time the white ball didn’t hit anything. “Shut it, Greg!” She cried before his wicked grin could do anything else. “We don’t need any more of your first-trumpet bravado!”

“All, right, all right.” He conceded. “Tell you what, let’s have a bet. If I win – you two buy me something from that cafeteria. If you guys win, I’ll –“

“John!”

Greg broke off to watch Mike Stanford duck ungainly through the mass of people milling in the backstage area, a mix of their own orchestra and several others, and a few members of the Royal Australian Ballet. He was huffing quite a bit by the time he reached them.

“Mrs Hudson told me to get you,” Mike said, leaning against the pool table for support. “It’s Anderson – he’s been taken off sick. He can’t do tonight’s performance.”

“What?” said John, horrified. “Who’s going to play first clarinet?”

“Well, you are.” Mike grimaced.

“But – but.... this is _the_ show! We’re at the frigging _Sydney Opera House_ , I can’t just learn his parts tonight –“

“You’ll have to. You’re the best of the second clarinets. You even helped him learn the solo.”

“Oh, fu- the solo...” John whispered, dread sinking into him. He clenched his hands into fists and stared at the floor to calm himself. Several deep breaths later he returned his gaze to Mike and an appropriately appalled Molly.

“There’s no chance Anderson can play,” he said.

Mike shook his head. “Quite severe food poisoning, apparently.”

“Right...Where’s Mrs Hudson?”

“Green room. Although, you’ll probably want to talk to ... you know...”

John frowned in confusion until Mike waved his hand vaguely towards a long, lanky violinist, perched unashamedly on one of the red arm chairs, deeply immersed in a book.

“Right, yeah. Sherlock Holmes. About the - solo. Duet.” John sighed before turning towards Greg. “Looks like I’m going to have to forfeit the game,”

“Hey, mate – good luck. You’ll be fine. Huds will understand,” Greg patted his back. “Not sure about old Holmes, though.”

“Wow, thanks Greg,” John said sarcastically.

“He’s not like that!” Piped up Molly, who’d turned a strong scarlet the moment Sherlock Holmes’ name had been mentioned and was still staring at him. Greg rolled his eyes.

“For Christ’s sake Molly, yes he is. He’s an insufferable twat. Just because you miss half your notes because you’re too busy staring at the back of his head –“

“I do not!”

Greg tapped the side of his nose. “I’m a trumpet, remember? We’re at the back. We know everything about everyone,”

“Ok – well, catch you later,” John announced with finality. “Mike – take over my game with Molly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • John = 2nd clarinet  
> • Sherlock = 1st violin  
> • Anderson = 1st clarinet  
> • Stanford = 2nd clarinet  
> • Molly = 3rd violin  
> • Lestrade = 1st trumpet  
> • Sally = 2nd cello  
> • Mrs Hudson = conductor


	2. Sherlock Holmes

Ten minutes later John was watching Sherlock Holmes again. He was trying to tell himself this was because he didn’t want to interrupt the other boy’s concentration, but really it was because approaching Sherlock was one of the few things that made him positively ill with apprehension. They shared a few classes at school, and had both been in the orchestra their entire school career; so by all rights John should have been on at least speaking terms with him. But a combination of Sherlock’s usual aloofness and John’s tentative hero-worshipping had prevented them from conversing further than pleasantries. 

John was sure that Huds had hoped that their three week tour to Australasia would get the seventeen year old to at least start to talk to people; but it hadn’t worked on the Europe trip three years ago and it didn’t seem to be working now.

Well; nothing for it. He had to let Sherlock know about his change of position so he could have time to pour over Anderson’s music sheets before their rehearsal, so gingerly he made his way over to the armchair furthest in the corner. But before John reached it its occupant snapped his book shut, turned and examined John right in the eyes. John hastened a swallow and grinned awkwardly at him.

“I did warn Anderson the fish was a bad idea,” Sherlock announced and slumped back into the chair.

“I – what? Huds- Mrs Hudson told you?” John stared. 

“No,” said Sherlock in a flat, ‘this-conversation-is-closed’ demeanour. “I am fine with you taking the solo,” he added.

“How -” John glanced at the folder in his arms, a bit thrown. “Well, do you think you could show me where your parts -“ 

“Bar 45, bar 60 and bar 72. But it’s written on your music, as you would have known if you’d taken the time to glance at it before consulting me.”

John pursed his lips. “Well, you do tend to ignore what’s on the sheet in favour of your own flourishes.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow but didn’t reply. 

“See you on stage, then,” John managed, desperate to end the conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote these chapters I was going off memory, but I've since found a photo of the backstage area, if you're interested:  
> http://www.flickr.com/photos/mesq/4095421610/in/photostream/lightbox/


	3. Rehearsal

“Why are these fucking stands so fucking heavy!” John whispered furiously, trying to lift his stand free of the chairs it was tangled up in. He finally hauled the legs clear and positioned it roughly in front of his own chair, throwing Anderson’s folder onto it – 

“FUCK!” John spat as the stand dumped all his sheets onto the floor. “Could this day get any worse!”

“John, are you ok?” Asked Mike, who was sitting on his left, holding both their clarinets patiently.

“No, I’m fine,” John said. “I’m just really excited for the solo I can’t play!”

Mike shifted in his chair. “Well, if you like ... we could both play it? Together?”

John took his clarinet back now his stand was finally in order. “Ta, but ...” he smiled resignedly. He could tell Mike didn’t actually want to share the role. “It’s a solo isn’t it? I’ve just gotta play it, don’t I. Try and play it,” he emphasised pointedly.

Mike grinned back. “There’s the John Watson I know. You’ll be fine,”

John blew empty air into his clarinet while the rest of the orchestra got into place, hoping Mike was right. 

It turned out the first clarinet parts didn’t differ too much from his own, and the places it did weren’t usually too much of an issue as John had doubled up on Anderson’s parts in the past, and most of their songs were ones they’d been playing for at least a year. Of course wrong notes strayed in, but once they’d actually begun playing John felt himself calm down as he relaxed into the familiar music. 

But all too soon, they’d finished their first three pieces and it was onto the fourth – the one that opened with John’s solo. John had been over and over the fingerings in the green room, scribbling all over the page although he’d helped Anderson learn the part – but even so he was clenching his instrument much tighter than usual and his arms seemed locked down a hunched state. He tried to calm himself through breathing, but Mrs Hudson had raised her baton and was watching him expectantly. John met her eyes as confidentially as he could. Satisfied, she cued the timpani and soft, rolling notes began to grow behind John.

He raised his clarinet to his mouth, nodding in time with his conductor. Huds conducted in very a rhythmic manner – probably due to the orchestra’s tendency to run away with themselves and end up ten bars ahead of where they should be – which John quite preferred to weird interpretative-dance thing the school’s other conductor had going on. 

John watched closely as Huds raised her hand for the percussion to get louder, building up for John’s entrance. John breathed in-out, in-out with his head bobs, and Huds turned to him fully, raising her arms and John inhaled on last time and – _SHIT!!!_ His fingers slipped! 

_FUCK!!_ John yelled internally. _FUUCK!!_

He found the right fingering quickly and then Huds cued him in as though announcing him to the Queen. But he had to take another breath, and in desperation to get the note out in time he practically engulfed his mouthpiece and suddenly the Concert Hall of the freaking Sydney Opera House was greeted with the hideous, screaming squawk of John’s clarinet.

Horrified beyond words, John stopped blowing immediately. Huds, looking desperate, nodded and waved her hands for him to keep going. John tried again and this time the note came out, thank god, but it was feebly and wobbly and John’s face was burning. Resolutely ignoring everyone’s stares, he kept playing through the music, and once he’d gotten a few deep breaths in his notes came out slightly stronger. But he’d ruined the piece before it was ten bars old. 

John was obsessing so hard on his own notes that when a soft yet lingering note from a violin sounded out he almost jumped. Stupid! He reprimanded himself. Stay focused, for god’s sake don’t mess this up further than you already have!

Sherlock Holmes was standing up, almost swaying with the music, caressing his violin with the bow. Usually John used the solo to simply enjoy the boy’s playing, and he felt an absurd twinge of regret that he couldn’t this time. Most of the orchestra’s members were there because they’d joined young and simply stayed around, but Sherlock was one of the few for who playing was a passion and an ingrained talent. He’d never been known to place a note unintentionally wrong and had been first violinist since he was fourteen. Some people – like Anderson – possessed a vindictive, jealous attitude towards Sherlock’s competence, whereas others – like John – simply marvelled. 

John’s first part of the duet was over, and he immediately picked up a pencil to scribble down notes in the margin of his music, more to avoid meeting Mike’s eyes than any pressing issues with flats or accidentals. Sherlock continued shaping his notes exquisitely – John could almost see them curling off his violin. And then it was up to him to return the violin’s call. 

Carefully arranging his fingers, John waited expectantly - not nodding his head as much this time. Mrs Hudson’s attention returned to him and as Sherlock’s bow signed off his last note John picked it up. Nothing uninvited shattered the air this time, and Huds’s expression lightened at him, but playing was still painful. John wasn’t sure if his lips were trembling with frustration or fatigue. God, he felt sick. He just wanted this stupid piece to be over, just wanted to get offstage. 

And finally – finally – the rest of the orchestra brought up their instruments and took the melody away from John. 

Huddled pathetically around his clarinet, John whispered the count of his rest bars and tried to ignore the shuddering when he drew in breath. He could feel his eyes prickling, and swallowing wasn’t alleviating anything. Huds was a fantastic conductor and orchestra-master, but she was human and John had seen the disappointment very clearly. That she was practically a surrogate mother for her band members made it worse. He’d let everyone down, and most of all her. 

_It’s only a rehearsal. It’s not even your part. Huds knows that._ John attempted to reassure himself. But his error had been an amateur one, not because his part was difficult technically. As the time came for him to play again, John bitterly wished the hot stage lights would evaporate away the wetness on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Concert Hall: http://fc07.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2012/252/f/6/sydney_opera_house_grand_concert_hall_pipe_organ_by_reptilesrul-d5e5f5s.jpg


	4. Friends and Conductors

Mrs Hudson caught up with John as they navigated the small and surprisingly cluttered hallway leading offstage to the green room. 

“John,” she said, and he looked up glumly. “Now listen, I thought you played well, really well. It was hard on you to take on Anderson’s parts.” 

John nodded. 

“I’m about to tell everyone this, but you don’t have to be back in the green room until half seven. You can do whatever you like until then, so as long as you’re not alone – you know how it is.”

“So I should do some practice?”

“If you think that’d help you for tonight. See if Sherlock will help you.”

Noticing John’s incredulous face, she added, “It’s worth asking him at least. And John – before you go – all I want from you tonight is for you to try your best. I don’t mind what comes out of your instrument as long as you give it your best shot, and I know you’ll do that, because you always do.” 

John sniffed a bit heavier than he intended to and nodded again. Mrs Hudson smiled fondly at him, before marching off to reprimand the ruckus of noise issuing from her students in the backstage area. John followed quietly, using her admonishment to duck un-noticed around his band-mates. He knew Greg and Molly would be nothing but sympathetic, but he didn’t want to talk about the rehearsal with them just yet. 

Once again it was the furthest corner of the room, the one filled with empty double-bass cases, that held Sherlock Holmes. He was carefully rubbing down his instrument with a cloth, absorbed in the task and completely ignoring Mrs Hudson’s instructions to the rest of the cast. John crept over to him.

“Um...hi,” he whispered, kneeling down beside the violin case. 

Sherlock frowned at him. “Two conversations in one day? Careful, Watson, we’ve almost outdone our yearly average.” 

John winced slightly. “I was wondering if you could – if you’re not busy – help me a bit. With the solo.” He exhaled savagely. “Please?”

Sherlock paused mid-wipe. 

“You don’t have to! Just...” John muttered as Mrs Hudson’s address ended and conversation exploded all around them. “Ok, no, its fine.” He shook his head resignedly and stood up. There hadn’t been an instant where he’d thought Sherlock would agree. Better to find an empty room to shut himself up in and stop inflicting his unwanted presence on everyone. He was certainly not expecting Sherlock to also stand up.

“John,” he said, disarming John completely – since when did Sherlock use people’s first names? “I will assist you on your endeavour.”

“You mean you’ll help?” John said incredulously. 

“Yes,” 

“Oh! Well ...we can use one of the practice rooms down the hall.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Wow, thanks mate,” said John, running his fingers through his hair. He was quite dumfounded Sherlock had agreed.

“Really appreciate it,” he added as the violinist strode away towards the aforementioned rooms, causing John to dart behind him, trying to keep up as he struggled through the packed room. 

“John!” called Greg. He grabbed John’s arm to get his attention, but quickly let go, smile fading, upon noticing his friend’s expression. “Are you alright? Is this about the solo? Seriously, mate – its okay...”

“Yeah, I’m um - Sherlock’s helping me with it,” said John, gesturing into the vague direction Sherlock had vanished into.

“Blimey- really?” said Greg. “How’d you pull that off?”

John shrugged.

“Well, Molls and I were going to grab some food and explore the city a bit, see the sights – you know. But if you’re busy...” 

“Might have to give it a miss, this time,”

“John,” Greg said, putting a hand on his shoulder and leaning in to talk softer. “Don’t beat yourself up about the rehearsal, okay? It’s not worth it. I certainly didn’t come halfway round the world to watch my best mate’s confidence get shattered over one bung note,”

John nodded, unwilling to discuss it, but touched at Greg’s concern. 

“Meet you back here then?”

“Yep,” said John, and Greg smiled before disappearing back into the turbulent crowd


	5. Practice

John found Sherlock in the third of the tiny practice rooms, lounging on a small plastic chair and plucking his violin like a guitar.

“You took your time,” Sherlock noted. 

“Yeah, I ran into Greg,” John said, pulling up a chair for himself and plonking Anderson’s folder down on the stand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in offended annoyance, which John spotted.

“What?” he asked pointedly.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t waste my time on foolish things like sentiment,” Sherlock spat in disgust.

“Are you kidding? You’re seriously having a go at me for talking to my friends?”

Sherlock frowned, confusion flitting briefly through his face. 

“Look, thanks for agreeing to help and everything, but if you even think about talking shit about my friends there’s no way I’m staying.” John said firmly, reaching for the folder, only to find Sherlock’s hand holding it in place.

“You misunderstand me,” Sherlock said, and to John’s surprise he looked almost fearful. 

“Explain then,” said John.

Sherlock looked away, but kept his hand on Anderson’s folder. “I regret my actions,” he said shortly. “Might we continue as though they had not occurred?”

“Fine,” said John. He hadn’t been looking for an argument, but some things mattered. He knew Sherlock was a very singular person, with barely acquaintances at school; certainly no friends. He wondered whether that was by choice or not. 

Oh. Sherlock’s brief concern when he threatened to leave... John watched as the other boy stroked his bow briskly with rosin. In all their years at school he’d never really considered that Sherlock might be lonely. 

John shrugged to himself and picked up his own instrument. Whatever Sherlock’s motives for helping him were, he wasn’t going to argue. He needed everything he could get if he had a hope for tonight. 

“No piano,” John muttered. “Don’t suppose you could give me a B flat?” he asked Sherlock. 

To his great surprise Sherlock sang the note, and John adjusted his clarinet’s barrel in response. “Should’ve figured you’d have perfect pitch.” 

“It’s not always a gift when you’re in firing line of the piccolo.” Sherlock replied.

“So,” said John, sorting out his music, and determined to leave their spat in the past, “I guess we run through it a few times, obviously it’s my first entry we need to work on –“

“Wrong,” Sherlock interjected. 

John stared at him. “What?”

“We could work on your entry until next year and you still won’t get it right until you fix your underlying mental problems.”

“My what!?”

“How would you describe your playing ability?” said Sherlock in a knowing tone.

“I dunno, average! Why?”

Sherlock shook his head. “John, I have been in this orchestra since primary school. During that time I have had incalculable opportunities to listen and analyse everyone’s abilities, and you are most decidedly not average.”

“There is no way you’ve been paying attention – to me! – for years.” John scoffed, a bit bewildered at the conversation’s change of direction. “No one cares about the little spotty thirteen year old hiding behind a clarinet four times too big for him.” 

“They care when that boy is almost eighteen but still trying to hide behind that same instrument,”

Any semblance of humour John had been struggling to maintain instantly fell away. “Are we talking about my ‘mental’ problems now?” he demanded.

“John-“

“Why are you even here, ‘helping’ me?” John spat furiously. “You never help anyone! What-“ 

He broke off, recognising the malice in his words too late. Sherlock was staring, and John sensed hurt in the other boy’s eyes, despite the unreadable mask the rest of his features had assumed. John buried his face in his hands.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Sherlock. That was an awful thing to say.”

“It’s a fair question, actually. I don’t help people.”

John looked up. 

“....why the exception, then?” he said eventually.

“Because you asked,”

John waited, unsure where this was going.

Sherlock plucked absent-mindedly at his violin. “People never ask for my help. They demand I assist them and dispose of me when they’re done. The effort on my part is never considered and I am never thanked.”

He sat up a bit straighter and looked right at John. “But you asked. You didn’t even palm off the embarrassment of interacting with me onto Mrs Hudson, though it was clearly by her instruction.”

“It’s not embarrassing to interact with ...” John whispered, struck by Sherlock’s honesty and more certain than ever that Sherlock felt rather abandoned. 

Sherlock, however, laughed. “I am under no delusions of my social ranking in the orchestra, and you’re not either, especially considering that you sit next to Anderson.” 

That sparked John off again. “Look, the only person who even remotely listens to Anderson is Sally. There’s a reason no one else uses his first name, Sherlock, and that reason is that he’s a pathological shit-stirrer and everyone’s sick of him!”

At these words the first glimmers of a smile John had ever seen on the other boy’s face appeared. 

“So what’s this got to do with the piece?” John asked.

“By ‘mental problem’ I was referring to your lack of confidence in your own playing ability,”

“Lacking confidence isn’t exactly a ‘mental –“

“It’s what’s hampering your ability to play the solo, so yes; I would consider it a problem.”

“I know, _I know_.” John sighed. He looked over at Sherlock, who was watching him silently. 

It could have been because Sherlock was so damn observant John could never have hidden it anyway, but maybe it was also because Sherlock had been so sincere earlier. Perhaps as well that John was feeling really sorry for the guy and wanted to give him a chance. Whatever it was, John decided to tell Sherlock everything he couldn’t tell Greg and Molly.  
“I know that,” John said, firmly. “But you can’t trick yourself into having confidence. It isn’t enough to ‘know’ you’re good, you have to believe it. And you can’t choose what you believe, can you? 

“I had the same teacher since I started the orchestra until last year. I can’t quite remember any exact words or phrases she used, but all I got from her was an immense feeling that I was hopeless and completely inadequate at clarinet. I couldn’t get the notes right, I didn’t play in tune, I couldn’t keep a steady beat – I started to hate the stupid instrument. Probably didn’t help that she kept trying to convert me to barry sax cos there aren’t enough in the Jazz band.”

He glanced over at Sherlock, who now had his fingers steepled under his chin, studying John closely. John was picking at his nails without realising.

“I’ve got a new teacher now, and that’s better, but I can’t – I never believe it when people compliment me. I learnt too well that I’m not a good player. Sometimes a practice session might go well and I’ll think that maybe, actually, I’ve improved somewhat, but then I’ll have a rubbish one the next day and feel like quitting all over again.”

Sherlock made a funny movement but maintained his silence, so John continued. It was easier to keep going now he’d started.

“I mean, I’m okay at some things. I’m pretty decent at sight-reading and I can blend my sound into the other clarinet’s – and the orchestra’s – really well. 

“Well, actually, that’s a whole other issue; I’ve been fourth, third and second clarinet my whole life. So I’m great at matching and harmonising, but I can’t lead. I can’t do it, and that’s what first clarinet is all about. I don’t know why Huds picked me for the solo; I’m the worst option.”

John looked back at Sherlock, and noticed a small smirk of satisfaction on his face. “Oh, god.” John sighed. “You already knew all that, didn’t you?”

“Most of it,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Do I hold my clarinet at a weird angle, or ...“

“John, if I listed everything I have observed and inferred about you over the past several years we’d miss the performance,”

“I’m not sure if I’m creeped or flattered,” 

“Be both,” Sherlock offered, and John laughed.

“Sorry,” said John, “It’s just – I think this is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had.”

He picked up his clarinet and pressed the keys fluidly. It was more relieving than he’d expected to finally tell someone about the insecurities that had plagued him for years, even if that person was Sherlock Holmes. Though he had to admit, in light of his confession John was starting to feel some partiality for the gangly boy sitting across from him. 

“So now I’ve confessed my deepest, darkest secrets,” John said lightly, “how does the great Holmes suggest we go about fixing them?”

“Well firstly I should mention that I don’t generally do this ‘expressing yourself’ thing, so forgive me in advance for any confusion-“

“Yeah we’ve had our fair share of that already, I think,” said John teasingly. 

Sherlock glared dramatically but John caught the humour. 

“Alright, said John, sitting back. “Shoot.”

“Firstly,” announced Sherlock, counting off his finger, “We’re playing in the Sydney Opera House.”

“Don’t fucking remind me,” John replied.

“My point is that we’re the second of four schools – the audience knows this. They’re not expecting the London Symphony Orchestra. I know it’s an international standard hall, but that only means that it’s especially designed to _make you sound good_. You don’t have to be me to notice all those wood panels on the walls and perspex rings above the stage – they’re there for a reason. Even your unholy squeak had a certain charm to it in that hall.

“ And secondly,” Sherlock continued, “Thanks to Anderson, we have the privilege of knowing the most idiotic human being on the planet. Even if you fuck up every note you play tonight, it will still be a vast improvement on what our orchestra would have produced if Anderson was playing the solo. 

“You see, John, I meant what I said earlier; you are not an average player. I agree that technically, yes, there is room for improvement, but that doesn’t matter because you play with emotion and honesty. You pour everything you have into your music - which could be why your relatively inconsequential error this morning has affected you so strongly.”

John could feel his face starting to burn and Sherlock’s praise. He rolled his clarinet between his hands, not knowing where to look. “Thanks,” he whispered, but doubt had latched onto him again. There was no way his playing could be that revealing. How could someone with a range as pathetic as his manage to produce heartfelt music? Still fiddling with his instrument, he replied, “But I told you, empty praise doesn’t work. I know I’m rubbish and that’s not going to change before the show tonight.”

Sherlock became incredibly stern. “I have never given out empty praise in my life. Despite our lack of previous conversation, you know enough of my character to be assured of that.”

And John did. Sherlock was honest to a fault; his ‘deductions’ were always painfully true and John knew most of the school detested him on sight because of them; testament to this was the amount of times Sherlock had arrived at rehearsals – or left them - with a black eye. Sherlock was telling it how it was. He was probably the only person who would. He certainly had no ulterior motives; he’d gladly play the whole duet himself. But John had to check.

“So...I’m not...” he began.

“Not what?” 

John winced. “Not shit?”

Sherlock groaned in exasperation. “John Watson, you are not shit!”

“Okay, okay!” cried John. “I’m not shit!”

And he gasped slightly, smile forming, as he realised that for the first time – he believed it. 

“I’m not shit,” he murmured in wonderment. “I’m _not shit_ ,”

Sherlock grabbed his violin and stood up. “Are you able to play now?” he demanded. 

John burst out laughing. “You’re bloody insane,” he said, beaming at the boy tucking his violin under his chin. 

“From the top,” said Sherlock, tapping John’s music with his bow. John adjusted his stand and stood up too. 

“I’ll count you in,” Sherlock added, and began moving his bow like a baton. John readied his fingers, watching the bow move rhythmically for his cue. When Sherlock started humming the timpani line, John - still high on his epiphany - spat out his clarinet for laughing. 

“I’m sorry!” he said, but Sherlock had joined in too. 

“Okay!” said John, trying to reign in his giggles. “From the top. Just don’t – catch my eye when you start humming,”

Sherlock smirked slightly but there was humour dancing between them. 

The bow started moving again and John bounced slightly with the beat, internalising it, and when the cue came this time the note from John’s instrument was loud and pure. 

Holding the tie, John swung round to look at Sherlock, eyebrows raised in surprised delight. Sherlock smiled back, his conducting becoming more dramatic as John moved into the trills of his part. 

And John subconsciously began to stop holding himself back. He’d always been so self conscious of his playing that he was always checking his posture and mouth position and breath, to the point where his over schooling rather strangled his sound. Sherlock knew exactly what his abilities were, and approved of them; John couldn’t have asked for a safer practice session. So he breathed in deeply, and with the next note all his tension fall away and just played. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise and endorsement as John’s notes became richer and deeper. Occasionally deviating from what was written in favour of conveying himself; John felt his way through the solo. And when the timbre of the violin melded with his sound John turned to his partner and let his mirth and gratitude reveal itself through his music.


	6. The Harbour

“We’ve still got a couple of hours to kill before we have to meet back here,” said John as they packed their instruments up in the green room. “I say we grab some dinner and have a look round the harbour.”

Having shoved his clarinet case under a table, John pulled his jacket on and glanced around at Sherlock. He was wrapping a blue scarf around his neck, but his movements were slightly stifled and John realised Sherlock was being overly self-conscious. 

John smiled warmly at Sherlock’s hesitation. Clearly he was unsure how to act; quite possibly he’d never hung out with anyone before. It didn’t matter to John.

“Um, Sherlock,” John said, walking over. “Just so you know... it’s fine. It’s all fine,” 

Sherlock pulled his long coat on and paused. “Thank you,” he said, and John knew he’d understood. 

“Well, any ideas where we should go?” John shouted over the sounds of the loading dock as they left the backstage area to hand in their passes. “Greg’s stolen my Lonely Planet guide,”

“Leave it to me,” said Sherlock, and when they reached the outside air he turned slowly on the spot, watching his surroundings fiercely. John was about to interject when Sherlock started walking briskly away. John caught him on a downwards escalator. 

“There’s a place selling cheap and rather excellent pork buns to our left,” said Sherlock as the escalator deposited them in the middle of several open air restaurants on the lower concourse of the Opera House. “I suggest we go there; it’s also take-away so we won’t have to wait for a table,”

“Let’s go then,” called John over the din of hundreds of restaurant-goers crammed into a small area. The same large concrete blocks that made up the Opera House filled this long, rectangular space too, gleaming rose-pink as the sun sank behind the Harbour Bridge. While Sherlock placed their order John walked over to the low, flat barrier that separated them from the water and claimed some cushions for themselves. 

Sherlock returned with a table number, and they both sat on the ledge watching the ferry activity, lights flickering on around them as the sun vanished. John’s stomach still twisted in apprehension when he thought of the solo. But that last practice, when he’d been playing with Sherlock; that had been brilliant. He’d felt so happy, at ease. Undefeatable.  
Maybe ... maybe that was what he had to do. Perhaps he couldn’t stop the self doubt permanently, but just for tonight? If he could believe for just twenty minutes...

“You did it before, John, you can do it again,” said Sherlock.

John started. “What? How –“

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand,” Sherlock shrugged. “It goes away when you’re under stress. It stopped just then, so you were thinking about something you’re anxious about. Tonight’s performance,”

John shook his head, smiling resignedly. “You know you’re bloody amazing when you do that,”

“You think so?” Sherlock looked intrigued. 

“Course. I’ll never forget that time our chem teacher run out of class, bawling her eyes out because of a few choice sentences you made about her life,”

Sherlock laughed. “I was suspended for a week. They thought I’d searched her laptop. Hardly my fault they can’t recognise the sleeve of an internet porn addict.”

John smirked. The teacher had quit barely a week later, which was a mercy as she was universally detested.

A short time later their number was called and John fetched their pork buns. He sighed with contentment upon returning.

“These buns smell heavenly. How’d you know about this place anyway?”

“The usual. Observation and deduction,” replied Sherlock, unboxing his own buns. He pointed a wooden fork at John. “Always follow the locals,”

John grinned and bit into his bun, and it tasted even better than the smell had promised. In front of him the harbour churned with activity, the city’s lights dancing on the water, and John decided that whatever happened in the performance, he would cherish this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where John and Sherlock are having dinner: http://trendsblog.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/hero1-2000x980.jpg  
> You can see people sitting on the ledge on cushions in the bottom left corner. And if anyone visits Sydney, by god go get those pork buns.


	7. Confrontation

A few hours later John and Sherlock burst into the green room, breathing hard from running and trying to hold back previous laughter in an effort to be civil, but failing immediately.

“Oh god, everyone’s staring,” John murmured at Sherlock. 

“Let them,” said Sherlock, too enamoured to care. 

“I still can’t fucking believe you said that to her face,” John huffed, leaning against the wall. “That was ridiculous, that was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,”

Sherlock grinned, about to reply, but realised John was no longer laughing. Instead he looked rather shocked. Sherlock spun around, becoming close to murderous when he saw Anderson and Sally standing there.

“Anderson! What are you doing here?” Sherlock spat. 

“Just here for some moral support. “ Anderson gave Sally a nauseatingly sappy look. “And Hudson wanted me to check how you’re going with the solo, John.” 

“John is fine,” snarled Sherlock. “And the last thing he needs is close proximity to your brain-cell destroying face, so leave us alone,”

Anderson’s eyebrow arched at Sherlock’s words. “Us?” He quoted in mock exaggeration. 

Sherlock blinked, glancing at John after a small hesitation. He was still standing upright and imposingly - Sherlock was clearly trying to maintain a facade of indifference - but John could see that Anderson had inadvertently exposed a deep insecurity in the boy. 

Sally must have seen this too, for she stepped towards Sherlock with a malicious smirk. “Did Freak really think-“

“No.” Said John firmly, cutting across her. Sally, Anderson and Sherlock all stared at him. “He has a name,” John continued. “Use it.”

Anderson looked at Sally, who was gaping bewilderedly at John, and was about to speak again when John got in first. 

“If you came over here to just bully Sherlock, you better think again, cos there’s no way in hell I’m letting that happen.” John said in a dangerously calm voice. “And I’m fine for the solo,” he added, grabbing Sherlock’s sleeve and heading over to where they’d left their instruments, not noticing the flushed smile spreading across the other boy’s face. 

“I mean it,” John murmured as they opened up their cases. “I’ve seen your eyes blacked too many times. Not going to happen again if I can help it.” He glanced at Sherlock, guilt racking through him. “And I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to stand up for you.”

“Its okay, John. It’s not normally people ganging up on me, more of a ‘I open my mouth and people react’ situation.”

“Even so,” John glowered, fitting the pieces of his clarinet together. “You know we’re on stage in like ten minutes, and you’re still not in your performance blacks?”

Sherlock looked down at his clothes in mock mortification, grabbing his bag.

John smirked. “So the great Holmes doesn’t see everything, after all?”

“There’s a difference between noticing something and caring about it,” Sherlock replied, standing up.

“Um, bathroom’s that way?” said John, pointing. 

Sherlock leaned in close. “There’s ten minutes until we’re on stage. There isn’t time to go to the bathroom,” he said, whirling away and winking at John before closing himself inside one of the double bass cases. Barely a minute later he flounced out again, fully dressed and highly amused at John’s gobsmacked expression.


	8. Anxious

Ten minutes later John was in the wings, standing single file behind the oboes, ready to go on stage. He’d always hated this bit – waiting with nothing to distract you from the nerves – and standing in Anderson’s position made his absence overwhelmingly noticeable. 

John blew air through his instrument to keep it warm and his reed ready, resolutely attempting to ignore the butterflies in his stomach that were mutating into cats by this point. His fingers were slippery on the clarinet’s keys and he shifted his weight to keep himself moving. 

Mike was watching him. John gave a too-wide, too-bright smile in response. Mike’s eyebrow rose in scepticism, and a wave of nausea swept through John as he realised no one was falling for his charade, least of all himself. He swallowed to tame the threatening sickness but that only seemed to fuel it further.

He had to do this. Everyone was relying on him – walking out would be far, far worse than going on stage and fucking up. And Sherlock believed he could do it – had convinced him he could do it – but that conviction was falling away with every movement of the clock. 

If he messed it up now he’d be letting Sherlock down too. Sherlock, who had gone out of his way to help John and so had been so ... open. In all their time at school John had never seen or heard of Sherlock giving anyone any notice for longer than it took him to deduce their life story, relationship status or last meal, yet they’d spent a whole evening together. Granted, Sherlock was completely fucking insane, but hell if John hadn’t had a brilliant time and realised that he really rather liked the guy. 

And he was about to ruin everything with the stupid solo. Whatever talent Sherlock had deluded himself into seeing in John would be shattered, he’d never look at John again. The whole orchestra knew Sherlock had helped him so he’d take a share in the fall and be even more marginalised; even more lonely than he was now. The audience would be disgusted, and John wouldn’t be disgracing just his school but actually his entire country as well. 

All these people would hate him. And think ill of Sherlock. 

_Oh, god_ , John couldn’t do this. The wave of nausea had become a storm and his breath was quick and shallow.

“Here,” John said, handing Mike his clarinet and folder. “Bathroom – back soon,”

And he sprinted down the stairs, past the bassoons, French horns, the trumpets and Greg, down towards the empty green room.

“John!” came a startled cry from behind him.

Sherlock was leaning against the wall, violin in hand, eyes sweeping over him in practiced observation. John froze, knowing Sherlock was reading everything about his small breakdown. Glumly he looked into Sherlock’s eyes, expecting to see disappointment and probably a bit of anger too. But the only emotion he could discern from the other boy’s blazing grey eyes was ... fondness?

“You really care what other people think, don’t you?” Sherlock said softly. 

John’s breath hitched, and he inhaled heavily with something that may have been a sob. That was it, wasn’t it? Observed and summed up neatly by Sherlock Holmes. John couldn’t say anything, fearing the emotion aching in his head – god his face was burning hot – so he stood where he had turned, almost hugging himself and humiliated by how pathetic he was. 

Sherlock stepped closer, placing his violin on a table. 

“I – I need...” John whispered, unable to trust his voice but desperate to say something. 

“What do you need?” Sherlock said, standing in front of him.

 _I need you to take this pain away_ , thought John miserably. 

Sherlock studied him.

“Why?” Sherlock said suddenly. “Why do you care so much?”

Confused flicked through John. “Because I’m human?” he asked.

Sherlock looked exasperated, which strangely made John feel a lot better. “Look, John. Whatever happens in the performance, Mrs Hudson will forgive you. I admit my data is lacking somewhat in this area, but I believe your friends will not abandon you. The audience’s opinion is worth less than the contents of a spit valve, so – why?”

John was somewhat disarmed by this logic. “People will think...”

“The hell with people!” cried Sherlock. “Is it about letting yourself down? Whose opinion matters so much?”

The silence after this question stretched hideously long between them. Staring resolutely at the floor, John mumbled, “Yours,”

A whispered “Oh,” was all the reply John heard before warm hands cupped his head and a quick – but firm and gentle – kiss was placed on his forehead. 

John rocked back in surprise, and Sherlock’s hands moved to his shoulders as though to steady him. 

“You don’t need to worry about that,” said Sherlock, and John nodded, dumbfounded, stomach no longer churning because it seemed to have vanished completely.

The sound of feet clomping up stairs forced reality back onto the two boys. 

“We’re going on stage,” Sherlock said, pushing John towards it. John shuddered in recognition and hurried back up the stairs, Sherlock’s hand lingering on his shoulder as long as possible. Halfway up the stairs John glanced back, but Sherlock, attending to his violin, didn’t see him.


	9. Performance

_Sherlock kissed me,_ thought John again as the orchestra settled into their spots around him. _Sherlock bloody Holmes kissed me on the forehead._

“You’ve got a weird look on your face,” said Mike, seated on his left and flicking through his music. 

“Do I?” said John distractedly. _What the hell am I supposed to make of that?_

John was still pondering Sherlock’s actions when the main lights dimmed and the stage ones flared up. He and the rest of the orchestra stood up to applaud Sherlock, as first violinist, and Mrs Hudson, as the conductor onto the stage. A short paragraph was read explaining who they were and which pieces they would be performing, and then they were seated, ready to begin, and Huds’ baton was poised.

With a flick they were off, the first piece fast and showy. The violin’s bows moved in hypnotising union, the flutes in front trilling with precision. John’s own notes mixed in low, mercifully easy. Behind him the trumpets burst into fanfare, spurring the orchestra on and thrilling John despite his lingering nerves. He knew how much Greg loved this one, belting out every note in a wonderful brassy timbre. You could feel the pure delight, and that resonated longer than any of the notes.

 _Oh._ John thought.

That was what Sherlock had been telling him about in their practice session. About the emotion he was unwittingly portraying. It was the same as Greg’s playing in this piece – it was performing for the music.

Not for the conductor. Not for his friends. Not for the audience – for his own enjoyment. 

Believe for twenty minutes... John remembered. He could do it. Sherlock knew he could, believed in him. That was what he had promised in his kiss.

 _I am not shit,_ John thought. _I am NOT SHIT!_

And his next note chased away his fear, and John Watson played the next three pieces the best he ever had.

When the last of the claps had subsided, Sherlock stood up. He stepped away from the orchestra slightly, placed his instrument in an intimately practiced manner and looked at Huds, ready for the solo. Satisfied, Huds turned to John and gestured with her hands, nodding.

Startled, John hesitated, standing up slowly and feeling his stomach constricting sickeningly. A spotlight appeared on Sherlock, and John cringed when his own snapped on.

 _Oh god, I’m so exposed!_ He thought. _This didn’t happen in the rehearsal! Ohhh god...._

Huds was watching him expectantly. Cringing, John put his clarinet to his lips and nodded once. The baton swished and the timpani began to roll.

 _BELIEVE!_ John bellowed at himself internally. _Ignore the fucking lights! I’m NOT SHIT!!_ He brushed away the sweaty hair clinging to his face, making his hand clammy. John tried desperately to wipe it on his shirt. Replacing his fingers on the keys, John looked up. 

Sherlock was poised in the spotlight, looking utterly spectacular. The other boy’s calm demeanour contrasted so strongly with John’s strung nerves that it went a way of stilling him. John swallowed, trying to fight back to the joy and peace he’d attained in the previous pieces. 

Then Sherlock turned and caught his eye. John could see a soft, involuntary laugh escape from his lips, and suddenly they were back in their practice session, just the two of them playing. 

No one else watching, no one else caring. 

Just he and Sherlock, playing for the music. Nothing else mattered – just them – and delight from that thought bloomed up inside John. A seed of hope that he grabbed tightly and hung onto. 

The percussion swelled up in invitation. John turned to face Huds, inhaling deeply; and his note sang across the auditorium. 

The next few notes followed in easy succession, and John lifted his clarinet high, above the music stand, allowing the smooth tones to fill the room. The spotlights were so strong that anything past the stage was black. Huds was smiling encouragingly, but John only had eyes for the violinist who had somehow managed to break through his career of insecurity in a single evening. 

John was so thankful – not just because he wasn’t destroying the tour, but because he truly loved being in the orchestra and Sherlock had directed him back to it. John gasped in a breath before continuing, for the second time on that stage feeling hot pinpricks behind his eyes. 

He could feel his music changing, invoking his emotions. His high notes flew sonorously around him, and John saw Sherlock turn to look. John’s notes were shifting from the written, but it didn’t matter. He wanted to tell Sherlock how much this moment, this whole afternoon, had meant to him. John poured everything he had into the clarinet. Nothing was left out; he gave it all to the other spotlit boy.

Sherlock’s bow was hovering above his instrument, and as John played his own cadence Sherlock looked straight at him, and winked.

Then he was off, bow whipping back and forth, fingers dancing. He had picked up on John’s improvisation, weaving the new notes with the old and giving himself completely to the music. John couldn’t do much else other than stare. Sherlock made John’s tune quicker and more erratic, bursting with moments of soaring ties before diving back down into low trembles. Sherlock played with his whole body, leaning into the melody and sweeping low in the slurs. 

Huds was getting ready to cue John’s entry. By this time Sherlock was so far from the original score John wasn’t really sure if what was written would suffice. The violin began scaling up the octaves, and John thought the hell with it and joined in.

His notes were low, warbling, as though asking permission to continue. Sherlock swung around, piercing John with an approving stare, and mimicked John. Okay then, so he was to lead. Calling on the written solo, John’s melody rose richly above the thrumming violin. The reedy timbre he loved about the clarinet fluctuated as the two instruments blended and moulded into one before springing back apart. Sherlock pulled the tune into his own hands, elaborating on John’s ideas, then passing it back to John and so they went, giving and calling, building on each other. 

John’s fingers flew over the keys. Never had he played so intuitively and well, so successfully. Joy was bubbling up inside him and flowing out as music, and still he and Sherlock danced.

He could sense the rest of the orchestra unsettling, and sure enough Sherlock was reaching his cadence. The violinist was watching him, conducting with his body and instrument, and they finished the solo as one. The final note reverberated throughout the hall, unwilling to die.

The audience broke into applause, but John absolutely could not give a shit. Utterly spent, he smiled meekly but happily at Sherlock, whose hair had sprung out in all directions in his passion, giving the boy a wild look. Combined with the unashamed ecstasy etched into his face Sherlock looked half crazed. But as the spotlights dimmed and John sat down, Sherlock clapped longer than the crowd.


	10. End

John walked off stage with a collection of band mates thumping his back and chatting incessantly with approval. Greg ran over, jumping on his back with cries of “Brilliant, mate!” and John’s mouth felt stretched from smiling.

They reached the green room, threw their folders in the box and wandered over to their instrument cases. Every limb of John’s felt weak with relief. His legs in particular wobbled like jelly, though thankfully his stomach had stopped constricting. He wanted to collapse and sleep for a week, but was too highly strung from the performance to even contemplate shutting his eyes. 

John broke down his clarinet, wiping the pieces fondly. Molly had pulled her case over to his so she could chat as they packed away. She’d seemed to have memorised every note he’d played and was intent on explaining the brilliance of every single one. John softly blushed his was through her rambling.

When Huds congratulated the room on a very successful performance, and singled John out in particular, the applause exploded around him again and John’s blush reached new extremes. A few minutes later the orchestra had cleared out to congregate in the lobby, ready for the bus back to the hotel. John was lingering on packing away, not really wanting the evening to be over just yet. 

“Hey, John – I’ll catch you in a few, yeah?” said Greg, whose instrument took less than a second to dismantle. John noticed the hesitance in his voice and looked up.

“Yeah, me too,” said Molly in the same manner.

“Okay?” said John slightly confused. They were both looking at something past him, but before he could say anything else his two friends had vanished through the door, leaving the room empty but for him.

John glanced behind himself. 

Sherlock was clicking his case shut. John’s blush returned with a vengeance and he quickly replaced his cleaning cloth and also locked his case up. John swallowed and walked over to the other boy. 

“You played brilliantly,” John said, suddenly shy. 

Sherlock looked deeply pleased. “Well,” he said, also standing up, “I must thank you for that. You may not be the most luminous of people – granted, tonight you shone rather brightly – but as a conductor of light, you are unsurpassed.”

“What.”

“I couldn’t have played that solo as I did without you, John.”

“Oh,” John mumbled. Silence fell as they picked up their cases and bags. “But, Sherlock –“ John continued. “Thank you. So much. I can’t even express...”

“Your music told me that,” said Sherlock, smiling. “And you always had the potential John. What happened on stage was all you. I just pointed out the obvious.”

“You’re saying that all I needed to get over years of insecurity was the obvious pointed out?” John jeered. 

“Most people do,” 

“Well I was about to run offstage and hurl into a toilet, until -” John said.

“Until what?” Sherlock said, leading the way towards the door.

“Until you kissed me,” John told the floor, ears flaming up as well as his face.

“So really, all you needed was my kiss,” said Sherlock painfully loudly. “Sounds a bit fairytale, John.” He smirked savagely, and John felt the awkwardness dispel.

“Hey, you did it!” cried John, pushing Sherlock playfully. Sherlock laughed and leant into John as they walked. 

“You’ll play the solo tomorrow?” Sherlock asked.

“My god, can we worry about that later? We only walked off the stage five minutes ago,”

“But you will.” Said Sherlock firmly. 

John grinned and leant back into Sherlock, threading an arm around his back.

“Of course,” he replied, feeling soft and familiar lips press against his forehead. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Age of Zero, I hope you liked it, thanks for the inspiring prompt!
> 
> Everyone else, hope you enjoyed it too! I'm still new at writing fics so any comments, critiques or suggestions are very welcome. Thank you for reading.


End file.
